The Science of Flight
by 98Shaddowolff98
Summary: AU.There are some things that don't add up about John. What starts out as an innocent puzzle, ends up becoming a life threatening journey to defeat shared foes of both their pasts. Picks up after ASIP. No slash. HIATUS.
1. Prologue: Feathers?

**A/N I would like to dedicate this chapter to TweetyCanary, for encouraging me to work my nerve up and post this story, considering i started writing this in Early February. There is going to be some stuff from Maximum Ride in here but it is mainly just the same universe without the characters. So if you have read those you will get a head start in understanding some of it. Enjoy the twisted creation of my weird brain. (I hope...)  
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**Disclaimer:** I may not own Sherlock, but I am pretty sure one day I will be able to kidnap Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch. Mwuhahaha! I also don't own the Maximum Ride books or anything from them. Sigh...

**Prologue: Feathers?**

Sherlock was bored. Again. It seemed the criminal populace had decided to take a break from their illegal activities. Bad news if you're the worlds only consulting detective. So, since there was nothing more interesting to do in this boring world, full of boring people, he decided to contemplate the enigma that was his flatmate. Shockingly enough, the one person in the world a little less boring than all the rest.

There were many things that Sherlock didn't question about John, because he thought he knew the answer or simply didn't care, as he had other more interesting things to deal with at the time. They weren't very noticeable anomalies, just small enough to be shrugged off but enough to make someone think if they had enough brains. Which they don't. But, Sherlock does. And since there was nothing better to do, (and he was too lazy to get off the couch), Sherlock decided that there were some things about John, that simply didn't make sense.

For one thing, John Watson is extremely light.

It had been a stakeout that went wrong as the criminals managed to find out that they were police and not their contacts. The resulting chase had ended up with John hanging precariously from an old warehouse roof after being rammed into. Sherlock had found pulling him up to be unexpectedly easy and found himself staggering backwards with the excess force he had used. Really, he would have thought that a man like John would weigh more than the average fifteen year old.

Sherlock frowned slightly as he remembered it.

_Odd_

* * *

><p>John Watson could deduce.<p>

It had only happened once, but it had left Sherlock puzzling for weeks. He had been just about to launch into his fully prepared speech, on how the uncle had obviously killed the step-son because _he _was the one with the leather gloves that still held the trace of poison that had been used to kill the victim. When he had been beaten to it.

"The uncle, Sherlock."

It had been such a quiet murmur that no one else in the room would have been able to hear it, even if there were no sounds whatsoever. But, Sherlock was not 'no one else' and was quite shocked to find out that someone had figured it out. He quickly spun around the room, trying to find the guilty party. Wait, he knew that voice anywhere...

_No..._

_No! _

_No?_

John had been dragged from his bed at 3 am in the morning and was currently slumped against the wall looking tiredly at the victims general direction. He seemed to be slightly miffed. Well, quite a fair bit actually.

"Really! Would you like to tell us why, John?"

There was mocking in his voice, as usual, but even Anderson could have picked up the threat there as well. The question seemed to shake whatever thoughts were swirling around in John's head and bring him back to reality with a start.

"Wh...what? I didn't..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"I believe you said that the uncle was the murderer. Would you care to explain?

Sherlock's face was surprisingly blank. But John knew that was not a good thing. It meant he was concentrating twice as much as he normally did on solving a particularly hard puzzle. Which was in this case; how John Watson, normal, everyday, boring, dull John Watson could possibly figure something out like this. Especially when it had taken even the Detective himself some time to think it through. Not that he would _ever_ admit that though.

"Would you care to explain how you came to that conclusion, John?" He raised his voice ever so slightly.

Each word was blanketed thinly with the semblance of detachment, but the undercurrents of danger in the sentence sent the hairs up on peoples arms. Everyone that wasn't already looking at the pair now turned their heads at the sentence Time seemed to slow, then stop altogether.

"Well, uhh...um..."

Fate decided to lend Doctor Watson a hand. John's mobile went off and he answered it quickly, relieved that he didn't have to explain how he suddenly rose in IQ.

"Hello?...yes...uh huh...yeah, okay, I'll be there in about 20 minutes."

John started walking quickly out the room, glad to be out of the suffocating tension.

"They need me to cover someone's shift at Barts. I'll see you all later" He closed the door of the small apartment without care.

Sherlock merely scowled.

_How convenient for him_.

The frustrated voice of Lestrade cut interrupted Sherlock's thoughts.

"So, who was it Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused until he was sure he had as many people's attention as possible.

"The uncle, of course."

* * *

><p>John Watson was never hurt for very long.<p>

It was a freak accident. A car had run a red light and T-boned the cab that John had been in when he was returning from work one day. The doctors said that it would take about 4 weeks for the broken ribs and hairline fractures along his spine to heal completely. So naturally everyone was quite shocked when only 12 days later he had fully recovered. Everyone said that they had never seen anything like it before, that such a thing was impossible. When they asked the Doctor himself about how he had healed so quickly, he would often just pretend he hadn't heard the question or talk about something else.

If Sherlock hadn't been overseas on a case he would have grilled John mercilessly. As it was, he rang him up and questioned him. But, mysterious, the call seemed to drop out. Either that or John hung up. Sherlock was going to go with the former. John wouldn't dare.

But the latest, most confusing, development in this strange situation, was uncovered when Sherlock had decided to once again 'borrow' John's laptop for information for a case they were currently working on. The laptop was on John's bed, which had been made very neatly, a testament to his days in Afghanistan. As Sherlock went to get the laptop, he couldn't help but notice the three huge brown and white mottled feathers that lay on the floor near the window.

_Feathers?_

**Reviews are highly appreciated, whether you hated it, loved it, think it's weird or you just don't care, review!**


	2. Memory Loss

**A/N Thanks to everyone who reviewed, alerted etc. Didn't mean to take so long...oops!  
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Disclaimer: I still don't own anything. *Sigh***  
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**Chapter 1: Memory loss  
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For just a moment, just a moment, John pretended that he was still blissfully asleep.

Then the screeching started up again and the illusion was lost. He looked over to the where his watch was on the bedside table and saw it was 2:24 am. Lovely.

_One of these days..._

Well, there was no way he was getting back to sleep now and he didn't feel like lying in bed for seven hours. What he wanted to do was stretch his wings some, but the stupid floorboards made too much noise to manage it without getting caught. When the tortured sounds of the violin started up loudly again, though, he found he had his answer.

After 5 minutes of waiting for the horrible wailing to start again, he pulled off his shirt, grabbed his watch and opened the window quickly. Jumping out he unfurled his wings, pausing in free fall for a few moments to enjoy the feeling of the wind catching in his feathers, before pushing down as hard as he could. He started off a little stiffly, muscles sore from disuse, but soon he found himself high enough to coast on the currents that circulated constantly above London.

It was quite a beautiful night. He was torn between going to the coast and simply circling London, but ended up deciding to stay in the immediate area. The moon was out, bathing the surrounding country in a pale light. The city shone out brightly, helping John keep track of his whereabouts above it all. There wasn't any company, though. Not many birds ever flew this high, or at night, so John had the sky all to himself. The moonlight distorted the color of his wings, various shades of brown becoming pale grey. Vaguely he hoped Sherlock didn't get a new case any time soon, he needed the lull to give him some time out.

John looked at his wristwatch. 4:47 am.

_Best be getting back, never know if Sherlock has decided to rummage through your drawers or something._

John grimaced. There were some things that just...shouldn't be thought about.

Pulling his wings in sharply, he fell. As he neared around the height that people would be able to see him, he leveled out and headed back towards Baker Street. He was just about to land on the windowsill when he noticed the window was shut. Changing route he landed on the roof instead.

_Just my luck. Really, this is just perfect!  
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John sighed frustratedly and ran his hand up his face and through his hair. How was he supposed to get back inside without having questions asked?

_The one time I want to get out I end up trying to get back in. Typical.  
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Eventually, he just gave up and sat down on the edge of the railing. He absentmindedly stretched his wings out, warmth radiating off them. The sky was just starting to get lighter, the Sun would be up soon. His mind worked at full speed to try to solve his seemingly hopeless predicament.

_How am I going to get out of this one?_

* * *

><p>Sherlock was sitting on the couch, dragging the bow carelessly over the violin. Thinking. Occasionally he spared a glance to the feather that sat next to him. It was really was too large for any type of bird. But something in his mind refused to let him accept what would be the obvious. Because that was illogical. It didn't make sense. He found his own words coming back to mock him.<p>

_'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'_

Well then, until a more sturdy solution presented itself, he would just have to stick with his current solution.

That John, _somehow_, has wings.

He had just taken the bow of the violin when he heard the floorboards creak.

_What could the good Doctor be doing this early?_

He smirked ever so slightly to himself. Experimentally, he once again started playing on the violin. He could barely hear anything over the din, but he could make out the floorboards if he concentrated. He paused and cautiously ascended the stairs, opening the door to his flatmates room. The window was open.

He decided on a whim that he didn't just want to be proven correct, but he wanted confirmation. If such an outlandish idea was possible he wanted to be 100% positive it was true. He would have to be subtle though. Extremely so, because now he doesn't know the Doctors depths. He is quite obviously more intelligent than he lets on and he hides it extremely well.

Sherlock grinned maliciously. Subtle could wait until tomorrow.

He closed the window and turned the lock.

* * *

><p>John was standing outside the door to 221b Baker St with the beginnings of a guilty conscious on his mind.<p>

He hated stooping to such underhanded tricks, but it was necessary. And you never knew if someone would remember anyway. Mrs Hudson, probably not. Sherlock, who knows?

He had knocked on the door, seeing no other way but to do it. Mrs Hudson's eyes widened with shock, seeing as John hadn't bothered folding his wings, staggered backwards. John's hand shot outwards and came to rest on the top of her head. He closed his eyes entered her mind. Each person's mind connected its memories together in different ways and he always enjoyed seeing each unique variation. This time, each memory pane was held in an almost spider-like web. Memories of her earlier life were strung together with old, fraying lines while more recent memories were connected by strong, gleaming ones. While, yes, what he was doing was a huge breach of her privacy he didn't want to pry. At least not more than he was already.

John mentally followed the cords until he came to the memory of what had just happened. He gently took the line off the pane and held it while it broke down. As soon as it was gone, he left_. _She wouldn't remember anything. He half carried, half dragged her now unconscious form into her apartment and placed her on the sofa_._

_She'll probably just think she overdosed on her evening 'soothers'.  
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Pausing at the bottom of the stairs he mused on his next problem.

_Now, what to do about Sherlock._

True, he could just do the same thing. But Sherlock would be extremely resisting. Getting overwhelmed was not good and left him unconscious for days. And besides, Sherlock wouldn't let him get anywhere near him.

All of a sudden, an idea formed in his head. It was risky and it mightn't work, but it was worth a try.

* * *

><p>As the door opened Sherlock quickly schooled his features in that of surprise. John didn't know that he knew, so why not let him explain everything himself. He was feeling quite smug with himself when heard something.<p>

_Sherlock, what are you doing up? You must be so tired. You don't sleep nearly enough, so why don't you have a break. Rest._

The smooth words trickled into his mind as nothing more than a whisper, but suddenly he was extremely drowsy. Wrong, something was very wrong here. He felt an uncommon pang of fear rush through him at the unknown adversary.

_Who are you? What do you want?_

There was a brief pause before he was answered.

_Sleep. You feel rather tired, don't you? Wouldn't some sleep be so very, very nice?_

He could feel the unconsciousness gnawing on him, begging for him to surrender to it. It became harder to fight. But he knew...somewhere...he recognized that voice.

His mind finally let go under the pressure.

_Goodnight Sherlock._

Blackness claimed him._  
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* * *

><p>He waited until Sherlock stopped moving. He only had five minutes, it would be easier to explain a short amount of memory loss than a larger one.<p>

He still endeavored to be quiet though. People can hear things while they are unconscious.

As he crossed the room, he noted the closed window. The closed _locked_ window.

_That little...Great so all this was because my stupid flatmate decided he wanted to mess around with me. The foolish, idiotic..._

He heard Sherlock stir on the sofa.

Diving in bed, he managed to get under the covers and slow his breathing before Sherlock fully came back to awareness.

_...twit._

Closing his eyes he managed to convincingly look like he was asleep.

Too bad he wouldn't actually get any sleep.

* * *

><p>Sherlock tried opening his eyes.<p>

It didn't work at first, but after a few tries he succeeded. He looked around, mind sluggish with confusion and the process of booting up. What...what had he been doing?

_What happened?_

He didn't remember taking any drugs. He hadn't since John came, oddly. He had been sitting on the couch, thinking. Maybe he had been using John's gun at some point too, but that was beside the point.

He was glad, a few hours later, when Lestrade called in saying they had a new case for him. And finally, it was something that wasn't boring.

* * *

><p>They had a new case.<p>

Apparently the body they found is quite...unusual. At least that is what they had been told. Whether or not it was genuinely strange or simply a prank had yet to be discovered. Pretending that aliens were invading is not funny if you kill someone, dye their skin green and drain their blood. Not at all.

As soon as the cab slowed, Sherlock was half-way out the door, leaving him to pay the fee. Again.

He missed round 1 of 200 between Sherlock and Donovan and entered into the room as Sherlock was observing the crime scene.

What he saw made him freeze.

** If you liked what you read, please review. If you hated it, feel free to tell me. (By reviewing, hint!)**_  
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	3. Panic, Fear and Pain

**A/N Thanks again to all the AWESOME people who reviewed, alerted or added to you favourites! You all get free cookies. Sorry it's been so long, reality kind of crept up on me.  
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Adrenaline shot through his body, shock momentarily dulling the irrational hysteria he had been thrown into. His naturally accelerated heartbeat increased frantically until the beats were almost indistinguishable.

_Fight or flight?_

He mentally berated himself, trying in vain to suppress the instinct. No matter how illogical it was, the overwhelming urge to run or fight tore at his mind and battered his senses until he couldn't see straight. He clenched his eyes shut as a sudden wave of nausea struck him. He leaned slightly on the wall near the doorway as dizziness joined the fray.

_FIGHT OR FLIGHT!_

It wasn't until he heard someone calling him that he came back to himself. He opened his eyes even though the world still seemed to be pitching unnaturally forwards. They had been calling him for a while it seemed.

"John! I said are you alright?"

Lestrade didn't seem overly concerned, just slightly irritated he had been forced to repeat himself so many times to get a response.

By now most people in the room were looking at him. The seemingly banished tremor in his left hand suddenly returned with a vengence.

He just couldn't do this. He would rather get shot again. And right now, he didn't care who was watching.

He could feel every set of eyes, Sherlock's included, on him as he walked out of the room without a word.

* * *

><p>While he really would have liked to follow John and confront him on why he was acting so strangely, he was much more interested in the dead body. He slowly circled it, taking in everything.<p>

"Most...interesting."

Anderson chose that moment to butt his rather thick head in.

"Interesting? Its a flipping werewolf for goodness sake and all you can say is 'interesting'?"

He pointedly ignored him. Really, why did anyone tolerate the man?

How the victim died was simple, but determining what it _was _exactly was the hard part. Because werewolves were either men or wolves, so therefore this was technically not a werewolf.

It's shape resembled a man. It had a wolf-like tail; large canines protruded from its open jaws, long dark brown hair that extended half a meter down its back giving it a mane-like appearance, large pointed ears and eyes that were not quite human. Back claws extended from its fingernails encrusted with dried blood. A dagger was embedded in the creatures' stomach up to the hilt, the falcon shaped carving sticking out, dark red blood in a pool from the fatal wound.**  
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_Cause of death: Rapid loss of blood from stab wound. Stabbed several times prior fatal wound. Missing one molar and one canine. Blood around mouth area, not the victims. Body position and facial expressions indicate victim was in a fight, though not of the same kind. The unique pure silver carving on the dagger and sheath suggests wealth and consideration, possibly gang symbol. There are no extra sets of footprints, therefore victim and assailant were alone. Its possible that the murderer did not plan the attack as it was rather messily executed.  
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_So, a gang murder but not planned. But there is enough between the two that they will murder each other on sight.  
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Sherlock paused in his analysis. There was just something that didn't add up._  
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_Why would John react like that?_

His brain answered the question for him._  
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_Possible involvement? Though it is highly unlikely he is involved in any sort of gang and even more unlikely he is any sort of...wolf. Feathers affirm this, as does the fear showed in his eyes. Defection from the gang is a possible solution, though still unlikely. He showed fear upon seeing the creature and also fear of the dagger.  
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_Conclusion: Since John is afraid of both parties, he therefore must have been pursued by some point by both._

While his newly discovered information settled in his brain, he relayed the information he had acquired from the body to Lestrade._  
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* * *

><p>Vaguely, John noticed his feet were moving. He was so caught up in his mind that he didn't notice any of his surroundings. He felt strangely detached from the world as his memories painfully assaulted him.<p>

He could smell it. The overwhelming stench of disinfectant. He could feel his skin tingling in response the the imaginary pinpricks of numerous needles penetrating his flesh. He could see the cages, piled high on one another in the vast room. He could hear the voices that were responsible.

Talking about their success from their experiments.

Mumbling about another 'inconvenient' death.

Whispering the remarkable results they obtained.

Thinking about how rich they would become.

_I'm having a panic attack._

He could hardly walk anymore. His whole body was wracked with tremors. Slowly, he made his way to a more or less deserted side street.

With fumbling fingers he removed his jumper and then his shirt. As an afterthought he kept a hold of them.

He jumped as high as he could, which was considerably higher than anyone should be able to and took off into the sky beginning his ascent, his wings beating powerfully.

Flight gave him the feeling of control. The ability to go wherever he wanted made him feel a freedom he had for a time only imagined about. So, naturally, he would find his way to the skies when all else seemed to be thrown off balance. Even though his wings were shaking, he still managed to stay aloft. The sense of security of being alone in the skies, however fake, manage to soothe his metaphorically ruffled feathers and calm him down some.

He lowered and landed roughly on the roof of a skyscraper when he had settled considerably. He grimaced as he rolled his bad shoulder, the pain dulling slightly as he stretched it. Sitting down on the roof, he decided he was going to have to think this through considerably. Mistakes in this game were fatal.

A frown settled onto his features whilst he concentrated on sorting through all the variables and possible outcomes.

* * *

><p>"You WHAT? How could you have lost him?"<p>

The man was uncharacteristically angry. He very rarely seemed to show much of any emotion, but it seemed this time he was determined to take it out on them.

He stood a little straighter as he tried to control his irritation. While the man was raging at his other team members he bared his teeth in a sneer.

_What did the fool expect? If those stupid idiots who thought they were so high and mighty hadn't tipped him, they would have had him by now. And we wouldn't have lost Jared._

At the remembrance of losing their former team member his anger stirred. But maybe it was for the best. Jared always was slightly reckless._  
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"You are the new generation, you have trained for years. We extended your lives to specifically allow for the training you went through so you would have a better chance at getting him and you failed again. If you don't catch him in the next twelve months, _unharmed_, you will all be decommissioned_._"

We winced slightly at that. It had taken them almost a decade of painstaking searching and hunting to find him and now he could be anywhere. And most of their research came from the team that had expired while they were still in training. This man is almost impossible to find when he put his mind to it.

"He knows we are here. You will be leaving in an hour to..."

The familiar words passed him by as he continued his train of thought.

_But this team is strong. Stronger than the last. We are faster, stronger, smarter and better fighters. We _will_ get this done.  
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"You are all dismissed."

The man walked away out of the room. Probably to report to his superior that they still hadn't caught him. That wouldn't end well.

He turned to address his team.

"You heard him. In an hour we leave, so everyone be ready. He's somewhere in central London. He knows we're here, so he will be on the move. And, remember. If he ends up dead the person who killed him will pay with his life."

He ended the sentence with a snarl. There was no way he would deal with the consequences for that huge a mistake. His tail twitched impatiently.

The whole team was anxious, not something borne out of fear, but of anticipation. Finally they all headed out, shedding all appearance of men, snarling and growling every step of the way with the twilight sky illuminating their path. Their howls echoed and warped around them as they bounded and loped through the countryside towards London.

* * *

><p>They walked silently to their base, the dying rays of light providing some coverage from prying eyes.<p>

While the death of the Eraser was pleasing, they still had yet to find their main goal.

Each one of them, when they took their oath, swore to rid the Earth of the abominations that now tainted it. And even though mankind was in disarray they could tolerate it. They had nothing against any of the races on the Earth, their gang was not racist.

The only thing they would not stand?

He fingered his dagger reassuringly.

A mutation.

* * *

><p>Glancing at his wristwatch, John realized he had been lost in thought for three hours. It was now 9:25pm.<p>

_Blast. Lost track of time._

He took off into the night sky towards Baker St. He had just folded his wings to start a dive when a sharp pain suddenly flared up in his right wing. He lost all movement in his limbs almost immediately and started to fall.

Just before he hit the ground, he swore he made out the wolfish faces of the Erasers.

**I don't know that much about werewolves, so i am not sure if they can be half/half or whatever. So, for the sake of this story, they can't. Thought I would add some other POV's here as well. Writing Sherlock is REALLY hard (for me) and i spent forever trying to do it, so i hope it turned out okay.  
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**You know the drill by now. Like=Review. Hate=Review.**

**(Though i would prefer constructive criticism instead of hate mail.)  
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	4. Escape

**A/N Yay, i watched the new season of Doctor Who! *ahem* Also, here is another chapter. It's a slightly shorter one, but the next one will probably be longer. Enjoy!  
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Sherlock was lying on the couch in a rather annoyed state. John hadn't come home yet and he wanted to run some of his theories about the case by him. And Mrs Hudson had taken his skull again, which he couldn't be bothered to go get from her freezer.

Honestly, John could be so selfish sometimes.

Getting up off the couch, he decided to call in some favours and see if anyone knew anything about this gang.

* * *

><p>Slowly, he became aware of his surroundings. Before taking the chance of letting them know he was awake, he took inventory or everything.<p>

_Nothing broken. Everything's sore, though. Confined space of some kind. Underground? Quiet, although voices from outside.  
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"...better not let...boss...wouldn't..."

_Musty air, dank, stinks of rotting wood...abandoned house? Most likely a holding place. Near a water source. Cold.  
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"...shouldn't he...up by...if you..."

_ Hands tied. Not feet, though. Mouth taped. Blindfolded?_

"Remember...dead if he...better hope..."

A plan hit him. It was desperate, but he had no other choice.

This time subtlety would have to be thrown to the wind.

* * *

><p>This was impossible.<p>

_Correction, this is highly improbable._

In any case, it had never happened before. Even the cabbie had given him a name, so his contacts should know _something_ about this gang. Nobody is quite that invisible.

The wind in the street picked up, billowing his coat out behind him in the mock parody of a cape. It was rather cold tonight.

There was one last person to try.

Entering the dingy establishment, Sherlock sat in the far right corner of the room. The bar wasn't much, but the music they played gave cover for many treacherous plans and the exchanging of secrets. He ignored the man until he sat across from him at the table.

"I'm looking for a gang. Their symbol is a falcon head and their murder weapon seems to be carved daggers. Heard of them?"

The man seemed to think it over.

"Maybe I've heard of them."

50 pounds was passed across the table. Satisfied, the man pocketed the money.

"Yeah, I've heard of 'em. They're into some weird things them lot. Right off their heads. Don't know why you'd be interested in them crazy blighters but word is that they have a base somewhere. They don't take kindly to strangers, if you get my meaning. Can't bribe 'em, can't threaten 'em. Last person who tried to talk to 'em ended up with on of them falcon daggers in his throat. Not very sociable. They say them weird killing's that's been goin' on is their handiwork..."

That sounded familiar. Sherlock interrupted the man's monologue.

"What kind of 'weird killing's' would you be talking about?"

The man shifted in his seat and looked around the bar. It wasn't packed, but there were enough people for him to hesitate.

"I wouldn't know much about that."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not paying you anything else."

The man almost seemed affronted. Crossing his arms, he looked to averted his gaze and examined the table.

"It's not a question of money, more like i wanna keep my hide from being flogged"

Sherlock sent a questioning look at him.

"Well, i don't know about you, but i don't fancy having my flesh carved off while I'm still alive."

He wasn't getting anything more out of him, he seemed quite determined not to betray more information.

He nodded to him once and the man left without a word. Waiting 15 minutes, he exited the bar into the street. It was drizzling now, he would have to get to the main road if he wanted to get a cab and avoid getting drenched. No use looking for something in rain, he was going to have to wait until it let up.

In the meantime, he would really like to know where John is.

* * *

><p>He closed his eyes in silent concentration.<p>

He had a time limit of 30 seconds before he lost focus and they realized what he was doing and a fall back time of 5 seconds before he blacked out.

He was going to have to break his own rules this time.

Taking a deep breath he began and started his countdown.

Pinpointing the minds of each Eraser, he simultaneously blanked their minds. He redirected all the input their minds were receiving and stored them in his mind. Using the concrete floor he managed to painfully scrape the blindfold down so he could see.

_20 seconds..._

All auditory, visual and sensory information was now being received by him and it _burnt_ but he couldn't stop now. He intercepted each and any thought that something was wrong, conscious or not and erased each one as they came. Shuffling across the floor to the far wall he managed to use it as support to get on his feet, the blindfold hanging uncomfortably around his chin and neck.

_13 seconds..._

Throwing himself against the door he managed to break it down, but almost collapsed from the sound of it multiplied tenfold. His skin was crawling from the different perceived senses and his mind was starting to overload. Running awkwardly up the stairs and down the narrow passage way he found the air smelt cleaner. He was almost out.

_5 seconds..._

Vagely, he noted that the Erasers he passed were starting to move ever so slightly. He could feel his hold slipping and his vision was starting to darken at the edges. Still, he barreled once more through the last door. This time, however, he went through too hard and fell down the few steps leading to the door and landed on the wet grass below.

_- 3 seconds_

Managing to stand in a very awkward set of maneuvers, he fled.

He could feel the tight band around his power stretching. It was either let go, or let it out. He let go of the Erasers minds and the effect was immediate. He no longer felt and heard eleven different things at once and his mind was blissfully quieter. The ropes around hands were thick, he couldn't see himself getting out of them without something sharp. However, the Erasers made a mistake. They forgot to bind his wings and his hands were tied underneath them.

Jumping into the sky, he beat his wings powerfully until he was high enough that they wouldn't be able to reach them. He looked back to see them all standing outside positively livid.

His face broke out in a terrible smile, inhibited though it was by the tape.

_They really actually thought they could catch me.  
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All of a sudden, though, his lightheartedness and elation died down at the realization that he couldn't return back home. No more tea, trash telly, decomposing body-parts, cases, squabbles with Sherlock...

He dropped a few feet as his wings froze. Quickly regaining himself, he realized he was going to have to leave England for good.

_I am going to have to tell him, he already suspects as much, but i guess he deserves to know._

He headed towards London, the bitter-sweetness of his escape following him._  
><em>

* * *

><p>He would never admit it. There was nothing on Earth that would ever make him say it to another person but...<p>

He was worried about John.

It had been just over two days and he had no clue where John had gone. He knew he wasn't with Sarah, considering they had broken up a while ago and he had checked quite a few places he thought the doctor might have been at.

Nobody had even seen him. No one. Like he had just walked off the face of the earth the moment he had stepped out of the crime-scene yesterday.

So he decided the best thing he could probably do is keep working on the case at home, in case John came back.

He had been researching on the internet when his phone went off.

_I suppose i shall have to get it myself._

With a self-suffering sigh he read his text. Then read it again. And again.

_24 years ago, John H. Watson did not exist. -MH_

**Just a little rant! I thought i would explain John's character a bit more, since this is an AU and it could be a bit confusing. He is _very, very_ powerful. But, he keeps it all bound up because if he didn't it would overwhelm him, kind of like Jean in X-men. And, yes, his power is telepathy. But, i also thought i would mention that the Erasers are NOT werewolf's. And John is NOT an angel. That's where the Maximum Ride bit kicks in. BUT, the gang is mine and any random OC's that you find in there. Thanks for reading!**


	5. Abduction and Infiltration

**A/N I am going through a HUGE case of writers block. It's like every time I sit down to write something, BAM! My brain shuts down and refuses to reboot. Hence, this chapter is late. Quite late. Thanks for everyone's feedback and advice!  
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His flight had carried him far enough that he would be safe for now, but he was going to have to leave within a few hours to keep it that way. Alighting on a building top, he scanned the roof for something that would help him cut the ropes still on his hands. He spied a few discarded bricks two buildings over and decided that would have to do.

It took him an while, but eventually after running the rope back and forth over the bricks, his hands were free.

And the first thing he did was rip the tape off his mouth, which in hindsight wasn't very smart at all since he hadn't been near a razor for two days. But at least he could talk and move his mouth now and that blasted itch from the tape wouldn't antagonize him anymore.

He picked up the smells of food from a nearby thai take-away and realized just how hungry he was. But, first things first. He would explain to Sherlock, warn him and hope the sodding git had the sense to listen and _then_ get some food.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's mind was in turmoil as he sat upon the worn couch, mobile in hand. It was late afternoon by now, the warm light seeping through the window panes illuminating the flat a comfortable yellow-grey.<p>

Everything he had thought he knew was _wrong_ and _what was John playing at_ and _why didn't I pick this up_ but most importantly_ what am I going to do about it_? A strange sensation flared up in his chest and he was surprised to find that the thought that John had betrayed him physically _hurt__._ He would have to file that away to think about later when he was bored.

Asking Mycroft for help was _out of the question. _He could do this on his own, thank you. Confronting John might be difficult, considering he doesn't know where he is or if he works for Moriarty or even if his name is John. For once in his life, Sherlock was at a total loss.

He started to cross the room with the intention of getting his violin. Playing always did help him think.

He was just about to pick the violin case up when the window shattered and a small object similar to a ball rolled towards him. His eyes flicked to the small sphere in surprise. It didn't appear to be doing anything. But appearances can be deceptive.

When he started to feel disorientated he knew his brain was shutting down. It wasn't until he had stumbled backwards closer to the object that he realized it was a gas bomb.

It had probably already been emitting gas before it had broken through the window pane.

He tried to make it out of the room. To an unobservant eye the sphere did not seem to be doing anything, but he could smell the faint chemical smell of the fumes. His legs had decided to shut down about now, so he was left to try to drag himself away with his hands. It was more powerful than he had given it credit. By the time he was at the door of the living room, he could hardly keep his eyes open.

He didn't even make out the door before he passed out.

* * *

><p>John walked up to the door at 221b Baker St.<p>

He had walked the remaining few kilometers because that's what normal people did. Or most of them.

As soon as he had stepped over the threshold he knew something was wrong. The air smelt bitter, like a noxious gas had leaked through a pipe. His face twisted in confusion.

_Why do I know that smell?_

Suddenly nervous, he ran up the 17 stairs two at a time and burst through the door into the living room. Nothing seemed to be out of order...

_...no. Please no!  
><em>

His eyes widened as he picked up the small, round gas bomb. It wasn't quite black and had many intricate lines carved into its surface.

He knew these markings. He had seen them only once, at a place he wishes he could forget, but since they were very distinctive he could remember the place quite easily.

_The Vault took him? Why? It doesn't make any sense. What would they want him for?  
><em>

His face set determinedly and he turned and walked back across the room.

_I guess I'm just going to have to get him back then._

Walking down the stairs and out into the street he started by trying to find somewhere quiet enough that people wouldn't notice him. After finding somewhere inconspicuous enough_, _he took off and headed North-West.

It took a couple of hours but he finally found the well hidden set of buildings.

The Vault was not a place people should want to go to willingly. Sure, it was set in a valley surrounded by long grass and patches of trees which allowed the deception that the place was quite beautiful. But if people knew what went on there, they would think again. Anything that holds the vaguest interest for modern geneticists is tried out there. Can you cross a human with a fish? Well, lets find out and see. He had only been there a handful of times, but it was enough to know the place inside and out.

Landing 200 meters away from the electrified fence that guarded the perimeter, John thought through his situation.

_No windows. Totally automated security system, no human interference at all. Erasers on guard. Sherlock's in there somewhere, most likely the holding cells, though what they plan to do with him escapes me. But whatever it is it can't be good._

He started walking towards the fence. He was about 50 meters away from the fence when he hesitated. He couldn't help but consider ALL the possibilities for this situation.

_They wouldn't be looking for you for a while. You could leave and stay off the radar. You would have a nice, long head start and it would take them another two decades to get at you again.__  
><em>

A small echo of his brain whispered its disagreement to this statement.

_But it's _Sherlock_ in there.  
><em>

Immediately he felt awful. He should have known better than to even considered it.

Pushing the guilt of his almost betrayal aside, he recalled the layout of the inside of The Vault. There were only two ways to get into this place. One was to be the van drivers who supplied the laboratories and research facilities with equipment and test subjects. The other was...

"Hey! Dogs!"

The two Erasers spun around. They locked him in their sights like he was a particularly difficult by rare prey. Oh, that's right, he was.

"You two sniveling mutts couldn't catch me if I was bound head to toe! It's a wonder you can catch your breakfast each morning."

John smirked mockingly. If there was anything Eraser's hated the most, it was being teased in any way.

They weren't known for their intelligence, so they didn't stop to think about why someone who has spent their whole life trying to keep away from them was now potentially within reach. Just as he planned, the Erasers morphed and bounded out the gate that was almost in front of them. He wasn't so sure what would happen next.

They stopped about 5 meters away from him. Wary, no doubt.

He shrugged his shoulders.

The Erasers shared a glance, then one of them crossed the distance and knocked him out cold.

* * *

><p>When he woke up, he found himself in a dimly lit observation room. He pushed himself up with his hands so that he was kneeling on the hard concrete. He tried standing, but he still felt slightly disorientated from being hit so hard.<p>

He had barely had time to properly adjust to the sudden light that came through the opened door when a figure walked in. It was a woman, dressed rather stylishly for a scientist. The lab coat gave it away though. Clipboard in hand and pen in her graying hair, she greeted him.

"Hello J. Has it really been 26 years?"

Contempt seeped through the undertones of his voice when he acknowledged her.

"Dr. Jensen. "

The middle-aged lady smiled pleasantly. The cold, hard eyes behind her glasses betrayed her carefully hidden cruelty.

"It's a pleasure to see you again too. Although I must admit we are rather confused to find you here..."

She let the question trail off questioningly. He refused to bite the bait, so she continued talking.

"Have you perhaps decided to accept our generous proposal?"

_What? Are they _still_ on about that!_

Filled with revulsion, John answered her scathingly.

"I'm not about to carry out the dirty work of corrupt politicians so that they can do what ever they want without consequence, just so that I don't have to be stuck with needles all day."

This didn't seem to bother the scientist much. If anything, she seemed to expect it. Picking her pen out of her hair, she wrote on her clipboard while she answered him.

"Don't think your going to escape again. Technically, you never escaped from The Vault and our security is not as disorganized as The School's."

Ah, but this he had taken into account. Naturally.

"I'm going to be leaving now, but don't worry, I'll be back in a few hours, we need to catch up on the years we missed."

As she walked away without a glance whatsoever in his direction, heels tapping against the hard floor, he knew for a fact that she didn't mean pleasant conversation.

Good thing he wasn't going to be around then.

* * *

><p>"Notify The School immediately. We have test subject J and are awaiting further instructions."<p>

Dr. Jensen's assistance hurried away to carry out her curt order. The School would be pleased to get their crowning achievement back, even though they really could use him at The Vault. But one did not cross their superiors.

What they would give for the smallest percent of that brilliant and totally alien DNA that ran through him. Oh, they would give anything.

But in this case, it seemed, there was someone out there who only wanted a man in exchange for the DNA.

Some man called 'Sherlock Holmes'. In any other case they would have refused, they weren't going to kidnap ordinary civilians if they didn't need to just for the whims of some psychopath.

But too much was at stake for them.

So they got in touch with the right people to seal the deal.

His people.

* * *

><p>Time didn't really exist in The Vault.<p>

It was all artificial lighting, stark white walls, chemicals and concrete.

So John had plenty of time to think. And that's where they always kept making their mistakes. If they didn't want him to escape, they shouldn't let his mind even function at all. Because as long as he was lucid, he could get away.

But, as the Dr. so wonderfully put it, John actually never had escaped from The Vault. There's a first time for everything though...right?

He had found Sherlock a while ago. He was in a holding cell located on the other side of the building from where he currently was. Sherlock was also still unconscious which would make it a bit more difficult to get him out.

Still sitting in the same position as when Dr Jensen left, John was rapidly thinking through everything.

_The main thing is to get out without the alarm being sounded. Being seen isn't the problem here. And somehow, I'm going to have to get my unconscious flatmate out through essentially the front door and over the gate in 2 minutes without the alarm being sounded or the system shutting down for this to work at all. I'm also going to have to hurry up and do something because I don't actually have that much time._

He was going to have to figure out a way to slow them down for this to work. He remembered the gas-bomb and suddenly the pieces all fit together perfectly as if drawn together by an invisible string.

_Oh, that is brilliant. Dramatic and absolutely brilliant. They'll be chasing their tails for a while trying to sort that out._

He just needed to work the slight detour to the Advanced Weapon and Technology Room into his plan and he would be set.

**I don't care how old John is in the series, in this he's 36 because it makes my life easier. And it fits with my storyline. (Yes, I do have a storyline. It just...hasn't quite started properly yet. But never fear! It shall soon.) As promised, this chapter is a bit longer to make up for the last being shorter. Any and all feedback is highly appreciated.  
><strong>


	6. Rescue and Explanation

_Three..._

The guards were rotating their shifts.

_Two..._

Maximum 15 minutes including a fallback time of 2 minutes. 1 minute to get out of his cell, 2 to get Sherlock, 5 to find the Weapons room and then 5 to get the heck out.

_One..._

John inhaled slowly. The guards changed, no one was in the halls, it was time to go now.

_GO!_

Using the wall as a brace he pushed himself up and ran towards the observation window. Launching himself with all the force he could muster he threw himself onto the glass. There was a split second of resistance before it shattered. Picking himself up off the floor he cautiously made his way through the small observing room to avoid the glass. He had around 10 minutes before they noticed what had happened.

_57 seconds..._

Once he was out the door and in the corridor it was only a matter of making his way to Sherlock.

_Right, left, right, straight, left then last door on the right.  
><em>

_1 minute 36 seconds...  
><em>

He moved as fast as he dared to try and remain as inconspicuous as possible. Full out sprinting down the corridors would be faster than jogging but people would notice that a bit more. He reached the holding cells in record time, relieved to see that no one had come down the corridors yet.

Opening the door as quietly as possibly, John braced himself for whatever sight would meet his eyes when he looked at his friend. He was relieved to see that they hadn't beaten him, in fact it looked like they had hardly touched him at all. He was still out of it and would probably be for a few more hours.

Carefully, he grabbed Sherlock under his arms and hoisted him up, which wasn't that easy because the man weighed a lot more than it looked. Still, he should be able to fly with him. He certainly hoped so.

_3 minute 10 seconds..._

Placing his hands on Sherlock' head John reached out with his mind. He touched Sherlock's somewhat unresponsive one and sent a sharp jolt through it.

The response was immediate. Sherlock jerked awake and began to try to wriggle out of John's grasp.

"Hey, it's okay. It's me, you're okay."

Instead of this calming his flatmate he ripped himself roughly out of John's grasp and shuffled away from him. He stood, but had to lean against the wall for support.

_5 minutes 52 seconds..._

John glanced nervously about the room as he spoke.

"Come on Sherlock we have to go."

"Why?"

Sherlock directed a hard stare at John. Something was off about his tone of voice, John decided.

_7 minutes 22 seconds..._

This was making John highly impatient. They had to go NOW and they didn't have time to argue about anything.

"It doesn't matter now, we just have to-"

"Who are you?"

For the first time since Sherlock had woken, John looked at him properly. Sherlock was leaning against the wall in a defensive position a good two and a half meters away from John. His face was blank but his eyes weren't. John could see anger, distrust, fury and betrayal in those grey eyes and that made perfect sense.

Sherlock thought that John had kidnapped him and taken him here. Blast Mycroft, looks like you can't keep anything hidden after all. Though, to be fair he did erase all that information from his mind when he first checked John background. Looks like he checked again.

It was a logical outcome. But it was the wrong one.

"Look Sherlock. You don't trust me anymore and that's fine, but if you want to get out of here we are going to have to go now. I am turning around and walking out this door and if you aren't behind me so help me I'll leave you here."

With that John spun on his heel and walked out the door. It was harsh but there was no more time. He was already behind by a shocking amount of time.

_9 minutes 53 seconds..._

He wasn't surprised to find Sherlock a step behind him as he turned the corner to the Weapons Room. He had know he would follow him, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't have left him behind.

Finally. Advanced Weapons and Technology.

He stopped abruptly and Sherlock ran into the back of him. John turned around.

"Stay here. If anyone comes, you need to act like your supposed to be here. If that doesn't work, yell."

Sherlock nodded hestiantly. It was clear he didn't like being bossed around, but the strange circumstances had rather subdued him for now.

He entered the room. It was filled with some of the smaller, cheaper equipment. But this suited his purposes perfectly. He picked up a small square the size of his palm, pocketed it and went out again.

He tugged Sherlock's arm and with a fleeting glance they were off.

_14 minutes 49 seconds..._

Right, straight, left, straight, left, right. They weren't going to be able to get out of the building at any major passageway on the ground floor, Erasers were practically swarming the commonly used passageways now. It wasn't long until they found his scent.

The best option would be to go to the roof and since the majority of The Vault is underground that only left one story to climb. Though to be fair it was a rather tall building for only one story.

As soon as they were out of the stairwell, John hurried to the center of the roof. Placing the cube down he pressed his finger down in the center of to activate it. 8 seconds should be enough.

John grabbed Sherlock and yanked him into a run beside him as he ran to the edge of the roof.

"John...?"

John tightened his grip around Sherlock's arm in case he tried to slow down or stop. He had to get him out of here alive and in one piece.

"Jump Sherlock!"

It seemed like everything happened in slow motion.

Sherlock and John jumped off the roof of the building. John grabbed the detective around his chest as he spread his brown and white wings out and beat his wings furiously. No more than a second later the building behind them exploded, the shock wave reverberating behind him menacingly. He flapped down hard a few times until they were high above the chaos and destruction below. The blast had been spectacular. Black, thick smoke billowed up from the remaining rubble indicating the fires within it. Whole decades of work would be lost, the cost enormous and the damage astronomical.

But that had been what he had wanted, wasn't it?

The guilt in his gut as he flew away suggested that maybe he had been wrong.

* * *

><p>John flew long and hard until they were back in London. He was exhausted from carrying Sherlock, adding to his fatigue from his lack of sleep over the last few days. It was dusk, so he risked landing on one of the lower buildings to stop a tedious long walk down.<p>

Landing wasn't an easy process. It's harder than it seems to land while carrying someone and they both ended up sliding to a painful stop on the concrete after John tripped over Sherlock's foot while landing. John's shoulder throbbed agonizingly in protest to the long exertion and the spot just between his wings felt keenly sore.

Sherlock had gotten up and was standing with his back to John who had pushed himself into a sitting position to attempt to alleviate the pain in his back and shoulder. The silence was heavy with unsaid words and questions.

Sherlock spoke first.

"Well, that explains alot."

He hadn't quite expected that. His confusion must have reflected in his silence because Sherlock spared him a quick glance.

"I suppose you want an explanation."

Sherlock nodded. He didn't seem to be so closed off, which was a good sign.

John had spent the last few days trying to reach Sherlock, but now he had his attention he had no idea where to start.

"What do you want me to explain?"

Sherlock looked away in thought. After a time he walked towards John and sat down warily, as if unsure of himself.

"Just...everything."

John nodded.

"Okay then. I'll start with my mother."

And here he made quotes with his fingers.

**FuzzyDeMash! You win a cookie and hug for being the only person to review the last chapter so far! Thanks a million and one. **

**I'm going to stop apologizing now for lateness, this story is only really going to get updated erratically and spontaneously because my life can be very busy sometimes. I had the intention to update every once a week but...yeah. I'm not to sure about this story and I have been writing other stuff, but I am most definitely sticking it out to the end.**

**I wasn't too sure about this chapter, I'm having a hard time trying to keep Sherlock in character. I would really appreciate feedback on this.  
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